In the Morning
by Becky215
Summary: Margaret and John Thornton wake up to their first morning as husband and wife.


_Disclaimer_: No copyright infringement is intended.

**In the Morning**

**by Becky215**

She was there in the morning, her hair spilling across the pillow like the smoky ink that curls across an empty page. The bedclothes clung to her skin, and the steel grey haze of dawn clamored quietly with the sun beyond the bedroom window. The sunlight was winning; it caressed her skin like a lover's fingertips, and he watched without a word as her lips parted in a silent whisper.

She was there. Her dress was draped gently across the divan. She'd chosen a shade of sunrise blue for her wedding day. Devoid of ribbons and silk-covered buttons, it was simply a gown from her bureau that made her smile when it fell across her shoulders. She'd laughed that her cousin would have been devastated that she'd decided against ivory lace and snow white satins. He remembered how she'd smiled at the altar, her small hands so warm and soft in his own. He'd decided then that every bride should wear such a color on her wedding day.

He watched her sleep and closed his eyes once again. Her hand rested upon his chest, holding him to her like a child who deserved everything she was given. He knew he was selfish in his love for her; he wanted her soul, her body, her mind, and her heart. She'd blushed when they snuffed out the candles on their wedding night, but her steady embrace assured him that each of his desires was contained in the trousseau of her smile. For her love, he gave her everything that he had, and she took it with relish.

The heel of a slipper hung limply from her trunk in the corner of the bedroom. It had arrived from London only just in time for yesterday's ceremony, but its tardy arrival was forgiven when his bride discovered her aunt standing guard over the vessel in the foyer. He'd stood back in the study as Margaret folded her aunt into her arms, breathless and smiling as she dismissed the nonsense of securing a hotel suite. The aunt spoke of tradition and the bad fortune that comes when one sees one's bride before the wedding ceremony; Thornton only offered the corner of a smile and said, "I'm quite poor now, so I doubt my fortunes will decrease simply because I look on Miss Hale's smile before noon."

The words startled the aunt, but Margaret interrupted her scattered response and scuttled her up the stairs with a wicked smile at her fiancé. In that moment, Thornton knew that he'd willingly live the life of a pauper just to gaze upon the particular curve of those lips for the rest of his days.

She was there, laying beside him, skin the color of honey and lips that reminded him only of springtime when the air is ripe with sweetness. He teased the lavender ribbon of her chemise and delighted in its softness against his rough palm. He let it slip through his fingers so he might touch it once again. He remembered ribbons and laces and the warm sweat of her breath against his shoulder in the darkness.

He blushed at the memory.

He studied the trunk once again and decided she'd have an afternoon of busy tidying as she fit her life into the cold lines of his home. He liked the idea of her shoes and stockings mingling with the coats and cravats that filled his wardrobe. He wanted her to wake from her dreams so he could hear her say that she was glad to be home, happy to be his wife, desperate for each tomorrow that ached to unfold before them.

Thornton closed his eyes and slipped back into their nest of downy pillows and blankets. There was work to be done in the afternoon; bankers would be consulted, tradesmen would be rallied, and shipments would be secured. He liked his work, but it was dark and cloudy business. All too often he'd come home with knots in his shoulders and gnarls in the muscles of his legs.

It all seemed different now. The work was the same and the hours were just as long, but on that morning he felt like he'd been born again, that her love had christened a new man into this woefully familiar world. He looked at his wife and thanked her for the gift of his own smile; in the office, in the mill, in the life he'd lived up to that moment, his smile was a liability that betrayed the man he was trying to be. With Margaret, his smile was the fingerprint of the man he'd been destined to become.

"You're up rather early."

Her voice was gentle and still touched with the laziness of sleep. He looked down to find her surveying him in the morning light, taking stock of her new possession with elegant fingertips and laughing eyes. Her hand glided down his arm so she might weave her fingers through his. He felt the warmth of her silver band against his knuckle and shivered; she was here, and she was his.

"I'm usually awake before dawn," he replied with a sigh. He brushed a curl away from her cheek. "Today seems to be an exception."

"Deservedly so," she mused, pressing her cheek to his chest and savoring the musical rhythm of his heartbeat. "A man does not wake up every morning to discover that he has a wife in his bed."

"Well, I hope to find her there for all the mornings of my life," he grinned. He admired the ruddy blush that burned her cheeks; she was lovely in her morning finery of amber sunlight, linens and lace. Her smile was beautiful.

"Oh, of course. I meant…well, I just meant that this is something of a first," she replied.

"I know what you meant, Margaret."

She delighted in the way he murmured her name, each syllable echoing through her body as he drew her into his arms once again. He clasped her hand in his own, but she stretched out their arms with a lingering sigh.

"You have very long arms, husband," she teased.

"And yours are very short."

Margaret looked into his eyes and laughed with a sensation that was born deep in her heart. She remembered trips to the coast when she was a child, how she would stand at the edge of the ocean and feel the waves tripping over her toes. She'd wondered what might happen if one could ride the waves into the deep, following their curves and movements into the quiet world that existed beneath the surface. She once imagined mermaids and the colorful fish she'd seen in picture books, but now she knew what it would be like to get lost on the sea, to feel the weight of the ocean wrapping its arms around her before swallowing her whole. His eyes were the sea, blue and deep, flecked with shades of grey and stirred by the distant storms of his passions. His eyes were the sea, warm and powerful, alive and full of mysteries that she could not wait to uncover. She held her breath, gave him a kiss, and lost herself once again in the sea of his gaze.

He held her and traced his lips along the path of her jaw; he felt the strength of her arms surround him. She touched his shoulders, gliding her fingers across the taut ropes of muscle that hummed beneath the flesh. She'd once wondered why God should have made men and women so very different, but she surmised that He'd anticipated this very moment of honest exploration and shy discovery, the warm weight of her husband's hand cupping her cheek as he smiled at her in the silent silver and glorious gold of the morning. She liked to think that her God had created this person for her, that their paths had been destined to cross and that their lips had been made to fit so perfectly together. She knew that he was a blessing, and she rewarded him with a gentle kiss.

"I am very happy today," she whispered. She loved the taste of his kiss that lingered on her lips; she loved him.

"I like hearing you say that, darling." He pressed another kiss to her brow and shivered when her small hand stroked his cheek. "I should light the fire."

"No," she said quickly, her arms holding fast to keep him in her embrace. He crooked his brow at her sudden response, and she flushed again. "No, please don't go yet."

He was happy to obey.

She closed her eyes again and tried to record the details of the previous evening. It seemed that days lasted for only handfuls of minutes, and she worried that the rest of her life might rush by like a few breathlessly delicious moments of perfection. She knew she was lucky that her blessings should devour the hours, but she wanted to cling to the memories. She wanted to feel their shape and remember the smell, the taste, the sight of such wonderful moments. The memories from her wedding lingered like muted paintings in her mind's eye; she saw John at the church, smiling faintly in a suit of grey with twilight in his eyes. She had a picture of their reception, a small dinner of pheasant and vegetables with a chocolate truffle too rich for the table. She had the black and white memory of her mother-in-law; draped in black, she'd cut a curious silhouette in the candlelit church, but Hannah Thornton had folded her son into her arms and wished him well in a voice that betrayed only her affections for the child she'd loved through so many winters and summers.

There was an image of her husband in their chamber, but all she could remember was the stark whiteness of his shirt against the warm colors of his skin. The evening was a blur in her memory, like the rush of wind and rain against the glass in a thunderstorm. Honest like nature and full of life, her husband had loved her and found truth in her embrace. She knew that no picture could have ever captured that moment. Love and trust cannot be captured by the painter's brush or even the poet's pen; those treasures could be found only in her lover's eyes, lit by the soft glow of a candle, and warmed by the elegant caress of his lips on her flesh.

The world was alive around them. The dull drumming of footsteps revealed that the servants were at work in the kitchen, and the smell of omelet and sweet rolls saturated the house.

Margaret looked at John and cupped her cheek in her palm.

"I love you very much, you know." Her fingers trailed across his brow, teasing the feather strokes of his hair with a smile. He caught her wrist and drew her to him, gathering the thin material of her chemise in his hands. He found the fire in her eyes and felt the warmth engulf him. He was lost to her, but he knew that he was safe in the gentle confines of her heart. "You don't have to say it, either. I know."

"What?"

"That you love me in return."

"How can you know such a thing if I don't say it?" He pulled her into his lap and combed his fingers through her hair; the curls were wild and unruly in the morning. She arched into his touch and draped her arm around him, resting her head on his shoulder with a sweet gesture that seemed as natural as the sweet blossoms that bloom in the summertime. He kissed the arc of her cheek, and his words were hot against her skin when he murmured, "I love you."

He held her close and felt the curve of her smile. The promise of each new tomorrow was intoxicating. He closed his eyes; each of his dreams would begin with the heat of her touch, the bliss of her laughter, the love in her eyes. Each of his dreams would begin with her.

"We ought to join your mother for breakfast soon." She spoke the words like a question, reluctant to leave his arms but conscious of the muted voices resonating from downstairs.

"Yes, we should."

Neither of them moved. He cradled her in his arms like a child. His fingers explored the delicate embroidery on the hem of her simple gown; he touched the curve of her leg and felt her hand cover his own.

"It's quite nice, isn't it?" she beamed.

"What?"

"Being married," she replied lazily. His hand was bolder and traveled across the swell of her calf. She remembered his breath in the darkness, how she'd perfected the art of abandon and relished in the promise of being found again in his arms. She remembered kindness and whispers of love; he'd held her hand and told her that she was beautiful.

"Yes. I'm in love with being married."

"You're in love with everything," she teased.

"I'm in love with you."

A knock on the door stirred them from their quiet conversation. The muffled voice of a maid spoke through the door to announce that breakfast was soon to be on the table. Thornton excused her with a word and turned back to his wife.

"It seems that we cannot keep the world at bay."

"I shouldn't want to. I'm much too fond of what it has given me so far," Margaret smiled, washing her hand across his cheek and marveling at the prickly surface. "So many gifts that I cannot begin to count them."

He admired her and folded her hand into his own.

She'd been there in the evening, gilded in starshine, alive with his touch and the grace of his embrace. She'd opened his heart and given herself to him without fear or doubt; her trust and her love were his treasures.

She was there in the morning, swaddled in sunlight and bright with the silent wonderings that sweep young brides into their arms. He kissed her hand with the timidity of a young lover; she humbled him with her smile.

She was there in the morning, and they belonged to each other.

**********

Thanks for reading, y'all!

-CH


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